Mr Randle
by TheNightimeSky
Summary: He had a schedule and he needed to follow it.


**I own nothing. :)**

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x-What did I know, what did I know ...  
of love's austere and lonely offices? -x

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_5:29 A.M._

He made a mental note of everything he had to do before getting up that morning.

He did this every day, and only with certain variations in the long list of things needing to get done in the day's span. Each one after the next, with little or no break in between each smooth transition from each task – his day had been, for the last ten years, knitted together carefully with tight knots, refusing to come undone and never dropping a stitch. But this was the way Lou liked it – it left little room for dozing off and sifting into another pattern. This way, he could keep track of everything, and make sure that everything meshed together perfectly, like a well-run machine.

It was five thirty on a Friday morning, and there was nothing left to think of, and so he started his day this way. First, he rubbed his eyes from the sleep – making sure to completely wake up before even leaving his room – and stared blankly at the ceiling, feeling the familiar sting of protest his eyes gave each morning. His gaze flicked to the empty spot beside him, and he sighed. Finally he swung his legs on the side of the bed, rubbing his hand over his age-worn face, ruffling through his dark hair – sprinkled with more and more gray each day, it seemed – slipping on his robe, and left his room.

He kept his hand rubbing his scalp, letting the nostalgic feel of his own father doing the same thing to him when he was a boy – and what simple, good memories that brought up: his early childhood. Walking into the kitchen, he wasn't surprised to see an empty table. Had it been years ago, perhaps he would've gotten up at the same time as everyone else. He'd wake up at seven, just in time to have a bit of breakfast, kiss Laura goodbye and let Steven know he'd be the one picking him up in the afternoon, just like always. He looked at the clock. 5:45 A.M.

But that wasn't the case, as it hadn't been for eight years. Laura left one day, leaving nothing but his son behind. And his shy, mild-mannered little Steven with his mother's curious dark eyes and _his_ knack for fixing things became 'just Steve', a biting, sarcastic teenager with a hot temper and a mouth too smart for a kid so skinny.

So Lou finally made the coffee, took out some cheap brand of cereal – that's all they seemed to afford nowadays – and commenced. He left the kitchen to go back to the bathroom, taking out all the necessities he needed – his razor, soap, brush – and continued with his own routine. He washed his face first, making sure to use the cold water so that Steve would still have some hot water for his shower, and then lathered the soap on his face, shaving carefully from top to bottom. 5:49 A.M.

He looked in the fridge, taking out the leftovers from last night. Just enough to make two lunches for today. Perfect. He took out his portion, placed the cold chicken and potatoes in an old plastic container and placed it neatly on the shelf with a plastic fork, next to his coffee.

He brushed through his short, trimmed hair wondering for a minute why it was worth it. He shook himself out of that state, though. "Fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes," he mumbled. He walked quickly and quietly to his room – Steve's room was right in between the bathroom and his room – to change. Short button-down, tan khakis, overalls, and his work shoes – polished just from last night.

He grabbed his hard hat, tool belt, keys, wallet and watch. He checked to make sure his socks matched – they always did – and looked at his watch once more before leaving to grab his coffee and lunch and leave. 6:00 A.M.

As he was leaving, wrenching open the front door, he heard the loud thumping in his son's bedroom, signaling – as it always did – that his son was awake. Lou froze at the door, waiting there, not noticing the chilled breeze of the new morning air, and listened for a bit longer. Lou heard Steve shuffle in his room, could almost hear what he was saying through the thin walls. Then he heard the door creak open, and Lou jumped back into action, closing the door quickly behind him before Steve even walked down the hall. He looked at his watch. 6:10 A.M.

~/~

Louis Randle was an electrician.

"Hey, Lou," Charlie said casually to Lou, who just grunted as Jimmy got into the car. It was 6:23 A.M.. Charlie was late _again, _which Lou had expected. In fact, Lou had once told Charlie to be late always. He wasn't sure what he'd do with the extra five minutes if Charlie was ever on time.

"How'ye doin' today, old man?" Charlie was quite a bit younger than Lou, closer to Steve's age than Lou's. But Charlie was a troublemaker, which Lou knew. He was always smoking something that sure wasn't cigarettes, and his eyes seemed to be bloodshot half the time he came to work. The other half the time, he reeked of booze or didn't show up at all. Lou made sure Charlie stayed away from Steve – the kid did enough stupid shit on his own; didn't need Charlie to give him a leg up on that one.

"I'm alright," Lou said flatly. In reality, Steve had gotten home in the wee hours of the morning last night, bein' so loud the neighbors could've heard him, but Lou didn't want to deal with that today. And he sure wasn't going to tell Charlie that.

"Yeah? Punk giving you trouble?" Charlie laughed. Lou shot a look at him, careful to keep an eye on the road.

"Shut yer trap, kid. I'm old enough to be your daddy, and the only reason why I _don't _throw you out on your ass is '_cause_ of your daddy," Lou snapped. Charlie just grinned, shrugged it off, which really made Lou angry.

"Yessir, Mr. Randle. I sure do appreciate the ride, sir. My daddy always said you were a good man."

"Quit talking, punk. You're giving me a headache." 6:42 A.M.

~/~

"Randle? Ye come over here for a second, Randle. I need ya for something."

It was fifteen minutes after Lou's first job of the day – repairing a very fancy television right on the west end of town – and he was getting antsy. Waiting was the worst part. Free _time _was the worst part. It made him nervous, all that time to have on his own. Charlie was gone, so he couldn't tell Lou to just calm down. He hated to admit it, but that good for nothing punk sure was nice to have around when he needed things normal.

But the wait was over – Mr. Saunders was waltzing his way up to Lou, sending him elsewhere. Finally. "Take a lunch break, then get going. Ye know where it is, Randle?"

"Yessir." Lou nodded, looking hard-set. It was one of the reasons why he got the better jobs. He looked professional, acted professional.

Most of the time.

12:31. Lou looked at his watch, and took out his lunch, carefully setting it beside him. He started on the potato first, and in this time he allowed himself to wonder what Steve was doing at the moment. It was a forbidden fruit, thinking about his son, because it usually shot him off schedule as he let himself wander into thought about what had happened, what was happening now. But he had five minutes with his potatoes and Steve. He figured he must be in lunch by now. He wondered where he ate, _what _he ate. Lou always came home to see food still in the fridge, untouched, and wondered what his son had brought. He sighed, looking at his watch. 12:38 P.M.

'_Two minutes over, Randle,' _he thought wearily to himself.

At 5:46 P.M., Lou had rounded up Charlie, who was just about bouncing on his heels at the thought of the end of the week.

"Calm down, Charles," Lou growled, "You still got work tomorrow, you know that, right?"

"What?" Charlie spun around. "Oh, right. Damn. Well, uh – already made plans with my lady, Mr. Randle. Hey, did you know it's hard shortening your name? Mr. R don't sound too great. Gee –"

"Whaddya mean," Lou turned his glare on Charlie, "yer not comin' to work tomorrow? I get you this job, and you don't even _show _half the damn time, kid? What's the matter – your lady friend will understand. You gotta work."

"Well, it ain't that easy, Randle … "

"Oh? Why not?"

"Well, Sara expects me to keep my promises. I don't want her leavin' me. You get that, right?"

Lou pursed his lips, knitting his brow together, "Course. Still, no girl's worth it if she breaks up with you for makin' the money. When's she gonna get a job?"

Charlie glared, lookin' very ticked off now, " 'Least she's _here, _ain't she?"

Lou stopped the car right in front of Charlie's house, "You get your ass out to work tomorrow, or I swear to God you lousy punk, you ain't gettin' any more favors. You hear me?"

Charlie's eyebrows raised and he inhaled sharply, "I'm real sorry, Mr. Randle. That was a mighty dumb thing of me to say. I'll be here tomorrow."

"Yeah, yeah." Lou smirked, wavin' it off, "Bright and early?"

"_Early_? Aw, c'mon Lou, whatever happened to good ol' Charlie bein' _predictable?_"

"Alright, kid. Git, and go show that girl of yours a good time tonight, alright? I'm pulling you out of that house tomorrow whether you want to or not."

Charlie winked. "Let's hope that house is the _only _thing you're pullin' me out of, hey Randle?" Lou chuckled.

"We still on for tomorrow night? We'll go … drinkin' or somethin', I dunno. Alright Lou?" Charlie called out as he walked closer to his house.

Lou nodded, "Yeah, alright. Bye, kid."

"See ya, old man!"

~/~

It was 6:12 P.M. by the time Lou had dropped Charlie off and got to the local convenience store. It was Friday, and Friday was a shopping day. Lou ran over the list in his head, thinking what he needed to buy. Bread, cereal, milk, lettuce, apples, vegetables, whatever was for sale in the meats section, and pasta. He arranged each item to their sections with produce, dairy, breads, meat, and went to the aisles for each one.

He got the same brand of bread he always did – yellow bread-filling and a darker crust wrapped in a white bag. The cereal was the cheap brand of Cheerios, the milk was 1%. He never knew if this was wrong, but he'd been eating it for years now; it was either the right one or he had just given up looking for the right choices. The lettuce and fruits were a little wilted and bruised, as was much of the food he bought. The meat was easy to find, and finally the pasta.

As he went up to the counter, he also grabbed his cigarettes and the pomade – for Steve, not him of course.

"Have a good one, Lou," the man with thick-rimmed glasses said.

"Yeah, alright," Lou grunted, taking the two bags away from the counter.

~/~

6:52 P.M. Lou walked up to his fenced area, feeling anxious again. Not that anything that was going to happen out of the ordinary – it was when his schedule started turning on him – his perfect, tightly-knitted schedule – and he couldn't do a blessed thing about it.

He walked slowly up to the house, running over frantically in his head what to do next. It seemed to jam up, and that scared him almost as much as what was behind that door. He turned the door, placing the key in the lock and turning it carefully. He opened the door, and held his breath. An empty living room.

He breathed a sigh of relief, and realized that he didn't even hear someone in the house. He relaxed. Yes. Steve must be out with some girlfriend of his … some friends … probably coming home long after Lou fell asleep. He chuckled to himself, feeling pleased that there was nothing to fear tonight, and nearly dropped his bags when he collided into his son coming out of the kitchen.

"Watch it," they both said at the same time. Lou was quick on the defense, both angered that his schedule was being followed perfectly, and getting ready to fight. He checked his watch. 6:59 P.M.

Steve glared, his dark eyes nothing more than slits now. His hair was heavily greased and Lou wondered how he got his hair into those kind of curls. His mother's curls, he thought hazily.

"Well?" Steve asked, putting his hands out.

"Well what?" Lou asked cautiously, frowning.

Steve jerked his head, and Lou realized that he was blocking the path. "Don't talk to me like that, kid," Lou spat, side-stepping Steve, going to the kitchen to put away the groceries. Carefully.

"Here," Lou said, tossing Steve his pack of cigarettes and tin of pomade. "Wasn't sure which one you wanted."

Steve looked both disgusted and confused, which Lou platformed off of. "What? So impossible for me to do something nice, right?"

"Sure is," Steve said smoothly, his voice quiet and lethal, "Don't usually find courtesy like this from a guy who throws their kid out two times a week."

"Bullshit," Lou growled, putting the bread on the counter. "You know like hell I don't throw you out – you come back whenever you feel like it, leavin' me near hysterical."

Steve looked furious now. He shook his head, leaving the room. "No, no."

Lou breathed out. _Point one for me, _he thought dryly, wanting to apologize, but not able to.

Steve sat down on the couch, looking at the blank TV. "Kinda hard to watch it that way, isn't it?"

His son's face remained impassive, just staring at the screen. Lou took a good look at his boy, taking it all in. His eyes were his mother's, that was for sure. Deep, dark, and brooding hidden under dark, feathery eyebrows. He had stubble growing on the bottom of his chin, trailing all the way down his throat. His age showed through in his frame – gangly and thin with clothes only a poor kid would wear. Acne dotted across his cheeks, giving his face just a little bit of color contrasting against his pale skin, and his dark, thick hair reminded Lou too much of Laura.

"What? Dad, you alright?"

Lou jumped out of his trance, "What?"

Steve raised his eyebrows, "Nothin."

"Make yourself dinner if you want – don't got time to make something," Lou called out.

"No." Steve walked up to the counter, looking wistful. "I'm goin' out later with Evie. Get somethin' then."

"You're going out, are you?" Lou shot back a little playfully. Steve didn't think it was playful though.

"Yeah," he grumbled. "Problem?"

"You got home at two o'clock last night, kid," Lou told him. "I ain't sure you're going out tonight. Maybe tomorrow."

"You don't care," Steve seethed. "You never do – why's such a big deal now? Because I've got plans?"

"That isn't true. You don't know _shit, _kid," Lou snapped. "Don't tell me what I can and can't do. You're not going out tonight!"

"If you cared … " Steve continued, "Why didn't you come out of your room when I came home? Why wait until a _fucking day afterwards _to see if I'm alright?" Steve slammed his fist on the table, yelling now.

"And what?" Lou yelled back. "Be talked to like this? You think you know so much? About what I go through? You are a _brat," _he spat, "and you sure don't deserve any sympathy. I oughta _smack _you for talkin' to me this way. You know how good you got it?" Lou yelled. "You know how fucking _good _you got it, Steve? I could do so much worse – "

"Shut up," Steve growled, letting his defense down though, looking unsure. "You could've asked – you don't get it – "

"If you think you deserve some medal because your daddy yells at you, then you're in for a rough surprise, kiddo. You ain't gettin' it. Not from me, not from your friends, and sure as hell not from all the kids in this neighborhood who have it ten times worse 'n you. So if you don't like the way things run around here, then get the hell out."

He now allowed himself to think – and he realized what had just happened, what had been happening for years to come. It might be routine – Lou Randle kicks out his boy two times a week, but they just didn't know the half of it. How Lou might hold the power to kick his son out of _his _house when he wanted to, but he didn't hold all the cards; not by a long shot. This was _Steve's _house, where he would leave for a few days and come back.

It seemed to everyone that this was old man Randle being cruel to his son, but he knew what the truth was, even if no one else knew. He needed Steve to always come back, even if he had to pay him. It was part of their routine, and Lou needed it all to be worth _something _– something needed to keep it all together.

That something was Steve.

Steve exhaled slowly, looking livid. "I ain't sayin' that. But tell me this, Dad. When's the last time you talked to me? Ask me anything about me? You care more about avoiding this shit than you do facing it." He turned away, "And by the way." Steve yanked up his shirt, showing both a large bruise and a bandaged torso. He grinned grimly. "Try askin' me next time why I'm late – maybe it ain't all my fault I'm such a fuck up." And then Steve grabbed his jacket and left the house.

Lou looked down, not calling back his son to see what had happened. It didn't work that way, at least not in his book. He continued putting groceries away only interrupting once to get the tissues down from the cabinet.

7:34 P.M.

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**(author's note):**

**Yeah … ? No … ?**

**I like writing about parents – it's quite a lot of fun actually. Would anyone care to call out spelling errors? I didn't spellcheck very carefully, I'm afraid.**

**Happy April 25****th****, my readers! Review, flame, critique. Do what you must, and do it well. **


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